


As Glory Turns to Dust

by roseclipping



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Curses, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Magic, lots of feelings guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-21 14:48:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11359656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roseclipping/pseuds/roseclipping
Summary: For a moment, Alex lets himself forget about the curse, forget about the way his life has been torn from his hands. Forgets about Jefferson, and how he's supposed to hate him, and simply lets himself be held.~Cursed to be forgotten,cursed to be forgotten...the lesson Alexander has learned is toneverpiss off a witch.And it seems that the only person who remembers him is the one he'd most like to forget.





	As Glory Turns to Dust

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Caesar_salad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caesar_salad/gifts).



> so, i may have gone a little too heavy on the angst part of this, but what can i say. my stories have a funny way of getting completely off track from whatever i plan to write.
> 
> (there's also a little bit of hamliza at the beginning of this, but worry not. this is definitely a jamilton fic.)
> 
> anyways, enjoy!!

****In retrospect, Alexander really should've just kept his mouth shut.

But of course, he did not, and now here he is; face to face with an angry woman who claims to be a witch.

(And she’s making a good case for herself, if the fiery-red glare and dizzying aura that seems to be radiating off of her body is anything to go by.)

“You _dare–”_ she hisses, voice low and seething, “You _dare_ call me a _fraud?_ You insolent boy, you bastard, whoreson–”

That was it. _Nobody_ calls Alexander Hamilton a whoreson, not if he has anything to do about it. His arm moves before his brain has time to react and suddenly there's a fist colliding with the witch’s jaw and fire in his blood.

The witch staggers backwards and clutches her face with one hand, an angry red patch already blossoming where Alex punched her. She glares up at him and Alexander feels the temperature in the room drop– you know, maybe she really _is_ a witch.

And maybe he’s screwed– scratch that, he's _definitely_ screwed.

A few shocked seconds pass before the witch straightens and glides towards Alexander. He would run, but his legs aren't cooperating– he's locked under her stony gaze.

“Alexander Hamilton,” she whispers slowly, and oh _shit,_ she must have some powerful magic, because Alex _definitely_ did not mention his name. “So ambitious, so strong. So full of life and hope and a drive to to great things, isn’t that right?” Her voice is mesmerizing; it's soft and low and somehow layered, like there’s three of her talking at once. Alexander is too captivated to respond.

“Remind me, what’s that thing you’re always searching for?” The witch closes her eyes for a moment and furrows her brow in concentration before opening them again, locking Alexander in again with that hypnotizing stare. “A _legacy?”_

 _Legacy._ The word sounds right, sounds familiar. _What is a legacy?_ His thoughts are hazy, and his head feels like someone has stuffed it with cotton, but he clings to the word before it fades away.

His vision is clouding, everything is swirling together and fading into soft reds and pinks and oranges– well, everything except the witch, who remains in sharp focus. She’s talking again, and Alexander has to will his brain to work just enough to pay attention to what she’s saying instead of simply watching her lips move.

 _“–live without a legacy,”_ she whispers, and Alex missed the first part of the sentence, but that’s okay, right? Such a nice lady, he’s sure the witch will repeat herself if he asks. Which he tries, but for some reason his lips won’t open and his tongue won’t move. Has he ever been able to speak? Alexander wracks his brains for an answer, but comes up short.

Huh. Interesting.

“From here on in, you are _cursed,”_ says the witch, or at least Alex thinks it’s the witch– could be anyone, could be just a disembodied voice floating in his skull. The pinks and oranges have taken over his vision now, and he can’t see a thing, not even the witch.

Has he ever been able to see?

 _“Cursed to be forgotten, to be pulled from this life without the relief of death.”_ The voice is getting louder now, and Alex is relieved he has the ability to hear. It was unfortunate enough to be born both mute _and_ blind, to be deaf as well would be a nightmare.

 _“Your legacy is lost, burned, blown out like a candle. Nobody will remember the name Alexander Hamilton.”_ He can feel the words rattling his bones, and though he can’t see– has never been able to see– an image of fire-red eyes and dark hair falling off in curls and lips curling into a cruel smirk forms in his head. _“Congratulations.”_

Loud, loud, everything is _so loud…_

And then it is quiet. Quiet, for what seems like an eternity, and Alex wonders if he’ll ever hear the voice again.

 _Again._ Alex chuckles to himself; what an amusing thought. He has never been able to _hear._

Then suddenly, his head clears. The fog is gone, whatever spell the witch had cast over him vanished. Speaking of vanishing, it seems the witch herself had vanished as well– she is nowhere in sight and Alex is alone in the dim-lit room. All the memories remain, bright and too vivid to be natural.

 _Cursed to be forgotten._ The words play over and over in his head like a broken record. _Cursed to be forgotten. Cursed to be forgotten._

Alexander shakes his head; this shit is insane. Air, _air,_ he needs air. And Eliza; he needs to see Eliza. Seeing her… he’ll surely forget all about this.

The word _forget_ sends a chill down his spine, and a terrifying thought occurs to him.

_What if Eliza…_

No. _No._ Absolutely not. There’s no way Eliza could’ve _actually_ forgotten about him, whatever ‘curse’ the damned witch had set on him. The whole thing was probably bullshit anyways; some elaborate prank played by someone with too much time on their hands who didn’t get enough attention as a child.

With that thought in mind, Alexander leaves the dusty warehouse– _how did he even get here, anyways?–_ and practically flies to his apartment.

Key in the lock, turn the doorknob, open the door– Alex bursts into the apartment and loses his footing, stumbling over the threshold a little before steadying himself. He looks up to see Eliza staring at him, wide-eyed and silent, mouth formed into a little ‘O’ shape. A sickening fear grips Alexander and his chest starts to tighten, _why does she look so surprised to see me–_

“Alex?” Eliza asks, stepping forward to place a tender hand on his shoulder. “Are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost.”

Alexander nearly bursts into tears in relief.

_Eliza remembers. The witch was wrong. She was a fraud, after all._

He doesn't start crying, but he hugs her tight and buries his face in her soft, dark hair, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he says, voice strained. “Just… long day at work. You know how it is.”

Alex pulls back, looks into her eyes– beautiful, _beautiful dark eyes,_ oh god, he’s the luckiest man on the planet– brushes a stray hair away from her face. “We should watch a movie tonight.”

Eliza blinks. “A movie?”

“Yeah, a movie. I’m thinking a classic– ooh, how ‘bout _Thelma and Louise?_ Haven't seen that in _forever._ We could order take-out, curl up on the couch… it'll be just like the old days.” He hops up to sit on the countertop and musters up a winning grin.

Eliza chuckles. “The ‘old days’ were like… two years ago, you sound like we’re an old married couple. And don't you have stuff for work? You always have to do stuff for work.”

“It can wait.” Alex shrugs, tries his best to come off as nonchalant. “What, am I not allowed to spend time with my girlfriend?” _While I still can?_

“What’s gotten into you?” Eliza says, but she smiles brightly and leans up to peck Alexander on the lips. “I’ll see if _Thelma and Louise_ is on Hulu. You order the food. Just like the old days.”

Thirty minutes later, Alex finds himself sharing a too-large comforter with Eliza, a half-eaten box of orange chicken in one hand and the remote in the other. All thoughts and doubts and worries surrounding the witch sink to the back of his mind; he is happy.

Just like the old days.

–––

Another day, another dollar. By this point Alexander has sunk into a rhythm, and this morning is no different: wake up, get dressed, brush his teeth, comb his hair, grab a granola bar for breakfast and head out the door.

Any thoughts of the witch or the curse had been cast aside; Eliza had proven enough that nothing was out of the ordinary, whatever spell the witch had tried to cast failed. Everything is normal, this is just another day.

So when Alex comes to a stop in front of his office door only to see that the name card has been changed to read ‘Oliver Wolcott,’ he was more than a little confused.

“Pardon me, sir, can I help you?” A familiar voice pipes up from behind him. Alex turns to see Aaron Burr staring at him, arms crossed and one eyebrow raised.

Alex blinks. “Burr, they changed my office. Who the hell is Oliver Wolcott?”

Burr only looks more confused. “Sir… unless you’re here to see Washington, we don’t allow non-employees to wander the halls.”

 _Non-employees? What the hell? Was this some kind of prank?_ “Look, Burr, I don’t appreciate–” Alex stops mid-scorn, with what feels like a kick to the gut with a steel-toed boot.

_The witch._

_The curse._

_The door._

_He doesn’t know who I am._

“I– sorry, I’m–” Alexander’s brain is short-circuiting. _This can’t be happening. No, no, no, Burr, we work together, we went to college together! It’s me! Alexander Hamilton! Oh god, oh god, oh fuck–_

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” Burr’s voice is colder now. He stands with his shoulders back and jaw set, clearly trying to come off as intimidating but seeming more like a stubborn child about to throw a temper tantrum. Alex would’ve laughed if he hadn’t been so busy trying to hold back angry, panicked tears.

“Goodbye,” he manages to hoarsely whisper before turning on his heel and breaking into a run. _Goodbye._ It couldn’t be the end. Burr isn’t exactly his _favorite_ person, but they’ve been through a lot and the thought of losing _anyone_ terrified Alexander. Not when there was so much more to be said.

And Burr wouldn’t even know it, not now.

Not anymore.

His feet are fast and mind numb. Taking the metro or hailing a taxi and facing another human being is the last thing he wants to do, so he runs home; by the time he’s turning the key, his chest is heaving and feet burning. Shit, he _really_ needs to exercise more.

_I suppose now that I’m unemployed, I’ll have more time._

Despite himself, Alex laughs, dry and raw and torn from his throat in the same way his life is seemingly being torn from his hands.

An empty apartment greets him; Eliza won’t be home from work until 5. Plenty of time to regroup, to collect himself enough to figure out what he’s going to tell her– because ‘a witch cursed me and now I’m being forgotten by everyone, or some shit’ just didn’t seem like a good choice.

It’s only a little after nine in the morning, but there’s too much happening and Alexander’s world is, after all, currently imploding in on him. So he does what any rational person would do, and fixes himself a damn drink.

One drink turns into two, which turns into three and then four– but he’s not sweating it. He’s kind of earned it.

And besides, who’s counting?

At 5:13 the door swings open and Eliza bustles in, not giving so much as a glance towards Alexander. And why would she? On a normal day, Alex doesn’t get home until at _least_ seven. She’s not expecting him.

He doesn’t make a move to greet her or call her attention either, so there’s no warning when she steps into the living room to find Alexander slumped on the couch, staring up at her with sullen eyes?

Eliza blinks, surprised. “Alex? What are you doing home so– have you been drinking?” Her eyes scan the mess on the coffee table– a scattering of empty glasses and a lonely wrapper from a sub-par protein bar– or, as Alexander saw it, ‘lunch.’

He realizes very quickly that in all the time he’d spent moping on the couch, he hadn’t actually rehearsed what he was going to _tell_ Eliza. Too late now.

“I punched Lee in the face and got fired.” The words come tumbling out of Alex’s mouth before he’s able to check himself. _Oh well. At least it’s realistic._

Eliza gasps, and rushes over to the couch to sit next to Alex, and places a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Oh, _Alex,”_ she says. “I’m so sorry. That’s _awful.”_

Alexander nearly laughs. _If only you knew._

–––

The next few days pass by at an agonizingly slow speed. Every morning he’d wake up, eat breakfast, Eliza would kiss him goodbye, and he’d respond with empty promises about job-searching. Then, he’d attempt to busy himself with mindless activities around the apartment– so far, he’s deep-cleaned the living room twice, repainted his bedframe, and finally set up the home stereo system Angelica had bought them for Christmas the year before.

Idleness did not suit Alexander Hamilton.

It’s an overcast Tuesday when Alexander finally cracks; he has to do _something,_ because if he so much as _looks_ at another bottle of Windex he might actually faint.

The idea comes to him naturally– call John. John works freelance, and life had swept Alexander up so much as of late that they hadn’t had the time to hang in weeks. His hand is at his phone without another moment to waste.

The phone rings six times before John picks up– odd, John usually responds right away– but it’s a relief to hear his voice and Alex thinks nothing of it.

“Hello?”

“Hey, John, you wanna grab lunch or something today? It’s been a minute, we need to catch up–” Alexander is talking a mile a minute, and he almost doesn’t hear John interrupt him.

“Uh, I’m sorry, who is this?”

Alexander’s voice dies in his throat as his brain fizzles to a stop. _No. Not John._

“It’s… it’s Alexander,” he says weakly. _He has to remember._

There’s a long pause before John responds.

“I think you have the wrong number, sorry. I don’t know an Alexander.”

Another stretch of silence when Alex doesn’t respond, and then the quiet _beep_ signalling that John has ended the call.

Ended a phone call, ended an entire chapter in Alexander’s life. Same difference.

John. _John._ Alex thinks of their first meeting, way back during his freshman year of college. John was his first roommate. His first real friend, his first relationship, his first _everything._

And now he’s gone. Pressed ‘End Call’ and shattered everything that had been built between them, with his final words being _I don’t know an Alexander._

Alex’s phone slips from his fingers. He makes no move to pick it up.

–––

“You’ve been moping for _days_ now, Alex, I’m getting worried about you!”

Alexander rubs his temple and sets his glass on the coffee table, leaving it to join the army of other glasses that had amassed on the coffee table from very similar situations.

“I told you Eliza, I’m _fine._ You don’t have to worry.”

Eliza sighs, crosses her arms. “I’m getting the feeling you aren’t telling me something.”

_Understatement._

“Why would I lie to you? There’s nothing going on. I promise.” Alex stands up and cups her face in his hand. “It’s just… all this job searching has really got me down.”

“And yet, you’ve made no progress in actually _finding_ a job.” Eliza’s eyes narrow; she’s unconvinced.

Alex huffs indignantly. “I’m _trying,_ Betsey. Nobody is hiring.”

“I saw a Help Wanted sign at Subway the other day.”

He nearly balks at that. “You seriously expect me to work at a _Subway?”_

“It’s _something!_ More than you’ve got now!”

Alex is stunned silent. Eliza just yelled.

Eliza _never_ yells.

“You should take a walk,” she says, once the tension had settled. Her voice is softer, back to normal. There’s something like sadness in her words, and Alex’s heart is heavy. “Clear your head. Then when you come back, we can look for job opportunities together, okay?”

He glances out the window; its almost dusk. Getting a little late for a walk. Still, maybe Eliza’s right. He’s been cooped up in the apartment for days, perhaps a little fresh air would do some good.

“Fine. I’ll go.” Alex sighs, shuts his eyes. He leans forward and presses a kiss to Eliza's cheek. “Sorry for yelling.”

She smiles slightly. “It's fine, you're stressed. I get it. Now go on then, don't stay out too late.”

Alexander chuckles and grabs his jacket from the coat rack. “I’ll be back soon. Won't even know I'm gone.”

–––

The twilight air is brisk, but not unbearable. He makes it down two blocks before deciding it time to head back, and in that time feels a wonderful, remarkable sense of calm wash over him. After being holed up in his home for so long, the buzz of the city is incredibly refreshing, and it's great to stretch his legs a bit and get some exercise.

He very carefully keeps all thoughts far away from the curse– bringing it up would only serve to worry him more, and the whole point of this walk is to calm his never ending nerves. Besides, Eliza seemed to be safe from the spell far. No reason for him to worry.

It is with this thought fresh in his head that he comes up to his apartment door, fumbling with his jacket for a minute before realizing– _shit–_ he must've left his keys inside. No matter.

Alex knocks on the door twice, and a few seconds later it swings open.

“Accidentally left the keys inside, ha,” he offers as explanation before moving to go inside, but Eliza doesn't move. Instead, she stares at him with brows furrowed, eyes narrowed in bewilderment.

“Do I know you?” she asks, stepping to the side to block the doorway.

For a second, Alexander doesn't realize.

“Eliza, what are you–”

Then it hits him, like a bullet in the chest.

_She's gone._

He does not say goodbye. He does not leave her with one final kiss on the cheek, one last, valiant attempt to spark her memory, to somehow reverse this goddamn curse that's been tearing every single person he loves out of his life, one by one.

Instead, Alexander turns on his heel and runs.

Runs down the hall, runs down the stairs. Runs out into the biting air– dusk has fallen by this point– and doesn't dare stop moving, because if he stops, he’ll start to think about Eliza, and if that happens, it'll all be over for _real._

His legs give out, eventually. He's able to make it to the nearest bar before doubling over just outside, chest heaving and calves burning. His ankles throb and lungs ache, but the pain feels good. Keeps him distracted, keeps him from thinking about what just happened. Keeps him from thinking about how truly _alone_ he is now.

Is there anyone left? Does anyone still remember the name of Alexander Hamilton?

“Hamilton?”

(So, it seems, there is.)

Alexander turns to see a familiar face walking towards him, and groans. _Jefferson._ Thomas Jefferson, the arrogant, flashy, hot-headed–

_Wait._

“You– say my name again,” Alex just barely breathes, threat threatening to close around every word.

Jefferson furrows his brow, stares down at Alex with a scrutinizing stare. “Hamilton, what are you–”

And then Alexander breaks.

He doesn’t really register collapsing into Jefferson’s chest, but suddenly there’s a warm chest pressed against his face and a _‘Wha–’_ from above him as Jefferson stumbles back, trying to shake Alex off– but Alexander holds tight. He is remembered, Jefferson just said his _name,_ and there’s no way in hell he’s letting go, someone remembers, someone _remembers–_

“Hamilton, what the hell are you doing?” Physical strength overrides desperation, and Jefferson wrenches himself from Alexander’s hold and steps back, looking at Alex like he’s lost his mind. Which, honestly, isn’t that far off.

“How do you– how come you remember me?” Alex breathes, painfully aware of how ridiculous he sounds, yet too exhausted to come up with anything better.

Jefferson blinks. “Excuse me?”

“You haven’t forgotten me, you remember, _why haven’t you forgotten–”_

“What the hell have you taken, Hamilton?” Jefferson’s voice is hard, and it shakes Alex from his daze.

“What have I– what?”

“You’re either on something or you’ve gone completely mad, what did you take–”

“I’m not on drugs, Jefferson!” Alex yells, flailing his hands around in a way that probably wasn’t helping his case– if possible, Jefferson looked even _more_ pissed.

“I can’t believe this. I honestly can’t believe this.” He sighs for a minute, running a tired hand through his hair. “You drive here?”

Alexander shakes his head, and Jefferson grabs his wrist before turning and walking away, pulling Alex along behind.

Alexander doesn’t ask what Jefferson’s doing, where he’s taking him. Doesn’t even resist or put up any semblance of a fight; just lets himself be dragged to a sleek black car a few yards down. It’s only when Jefferson is shoving him into the passenger seat that he speaks up.

“What are you doing?”

Jefferson doesn’t say anything immediately, instead buckles Alex in– which, really, he’s not a _child–_ and situates himself in the driver’s seat before responding.

“Taking your dumb ass home. You better thank me for this. Where do you live.”

Alex cringes, digs his nails into his forearm to calm himself. “Can’t go home,” he mutters. Barely a whisper, but the dizzying, terrifying truth of the statement is deafening.

He’s not looking at Jefferson, but he can practically feel the eye roll. “And why is that?”

 _Please don’t make me say it, please…_ His nails bite further into his arms, almost breaking the skin. _Breathe, Alex. Breathe._ “Eliza. She– she doesn’t remember…” Alex trails off as an ugly, wretched sob threatens to break loose.

Jefferson is quiet for a long while before eventually revving up the engine and pulling out of the parking space. “I can’t believe this,” he says again.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m taking you to my place. You can sleep on the couch until you come down from whatever weird-ass trip you’re on.”

Alex huffs. “Not on drugs.”

“Uh-huh.”

He could argue, but really, what’s the point? It’s not like Jefferson’s going to remember him, remember any of this. The thought stings, and Alex almost laughs– a month ago he’d have given anything to rid himself of Jefferson’s terribly annoying presence, but now? The prospect of losing anyone else, even an asshole like Thomas Jefferson, is wrecking enough to make Alex want to hold on tight to the man and never, ever let go.

The car ride stretches on in silence, and Alex spaces out for most of it. Jefferson insists on leading him out of the car and into the building with one hand firmly grasped around his wrist– a gesture that could be sweet if it weren’t done by a man who all but despises him. Especially since said man thoroughly believes him to be on drugs.

“So,” Jefferson says once they’ve gotten inside, “I don’t know how much clearer I gotta be to get through to you. What did you _take?”_

Alex crosses his arms, the familiar annoyance he’s come to associate with all things Jefferson seeping its way back into his head. “I told you. I’m not on fucking drugs, you don’t have to babysit me, I’m not–”

“What the hell is wrong with you, then?”

“I was cursed.” Alex’s voice is flat, devoid of emotion. Maybe not the best way to break the news, as Jefferson very obviously doesn’t believe him.

“Very funny. But seriously–”

“You think I’m joking?” Alexander cuts him off, too irritated and exhausted to dance around the truth any longer. “I pissed off a witch and she cursed me. Now everyone I’ve ever cared about doesn’t remember that I exist.”

Jefferson blinks, taken aback yet still wary. “Witches aren’t real.”

“That’s what I thought, too.”

An uncomfortable silence passes between them, neither men knowing what to say. Jefferson still looks unconvinced, but not quite as aggravated as before. Now he just looks uncertain– whether that’s with Alexander or with his own beliefs, Alex isn’t sure.

Eventually, he breaks the silence. “I’m texting James.”

Alex raises an eyebrow. “He gonna confirm whether I’m bullshitting you or not?”

Another eye-roll– it seemed the man couldn’t go five minute without one– and Jefferson reaches for his phone. “No, dumbass. I want a drink and for whatever reason I want company other than _you.”_

Alexander grunts but otherwise gives no further response; Jefferson could drink with whoever he wants. Not his concern. Though, now that he’s thinking about it, a drink sounds damn good right about now; hopefully Jefferson is kind enough to share.

“James will be over in a minute. He lives two floors down. Try not to be all… weird around him.” Jefferson says, moving to the kitchen in two quick strides and pulling a bottle of wine from the cabinet, as well as two glasses.

“I want some too,” Alexander says before he could stop himself. Jefferson only scoffs.

“Like hell I’m giving you alcohol. You won’t tell me what you’re on.”

 _This again? Really?_ Jefferson sure is stubborn in his beliefs. “For the last time, I’m not on fucking drugs.”

“Right,” Jefferson drawls, voice dripping with sarcasm. “You’re _cursed.”_

Before Alexander can reply, there’s a knock at the door.

“It’s open,” Jefferson calls, and the door creaks open. James Madison comes in, shrugs his jacket off at the door and crosses to the kitchen.

“Hey, Jemmy,” says Jefferson, sounding much more jovial than he ever did talking to Alex. James nods in greeting before his eyes fall on Alexander and squints.

He makes a gesture towards Alex with the hand not reaching for one of the glasses. “Who’s that?”

Well, there’s another name to cross off the list. Not that Alex is too upset about it– he didn’t really know James all that well, despite having met in their freshman year of college. Alex got the feeling James wasn’t all too fond of him, although unlike Jefferson, they didn’t share a workspace so Alex never gave it much thought.

Still, it served as a cruel reminder of his fate, and that part stung.

“What do you mean, who’s–” Jefferson starts, confusion written all over his face, before faltering as it dawns on him. He glances to Alex, who gives him a flat, _what did I tell you_ look. His expression shifts from one of bewilderment to one of utter shock to one of horror, before blinking twice and shaking his head a little to ground himself.

Jefferson clears his throat. “He’s, ah. He’s a... friend of mine.” Alex can tell he’s trying to play it cool, act like nothing just happened, but he’s failing rather miserably– Jefferson looks like he’s seen a ghost.

James stays for exactly twelve minutes before awkwardly thanking Jefferson for the drink– carefully not questioning his shaken demeanor and panicked glances towards Alexander– and shuffles out the door, letting it close behind him with a quiet _thud._

More silence fills the air, and the tension is so thick it’s nearly suffocating. It lasts an eternity, or maybe no time at all.

Again, Jefferson is the one to break it.

“You were serious.”

Alexander shrugs. “I don’t do drugs. Never have, never will.” He pauses. “Scratch that. I smoked a joint in college once. It was… underwhelming.”

Jefferson’s stare is uncomfortable intense, like the information is too hard to process and it’s causing all the gears in his little peacock brain to jam. “How are you not… freaking out?”

Seriously? “I _did_ freak out,” Alex says. “You accused me of being on drugs. But now I’m coming to terms with the fact that I’ll spend the rest of my life homeless and forgotten until I get mugged and die in an alley in two months.”

Jefferson furrows his brow. “Homeless?”

“Yes, homeless,” Alex says, rolling his eyes. “I _was_ living with my girlfriend, but… we know how that turned out.” He scrubs his eyes, biting the inside of his cheek. _No way in hell am I breaking down in front of Jefferson. No damn way._

Jefferson, for his part, crosses his arms and meets Alexander with a scrutinizing stare, lip caught between his teeth looking deep in thought. “No,” he says after a minute. “That's not gonna fly.”

Alexander scoffs. “Meaning?”

“I have a spare bedroom. Or a couch. You can stay here.”

“Uh-huh. I’m… _flattered,_ but I’d rather not.” Well, his _pride_ would rather not. Every other part of him both yearns for a warm bed and is terrified of sleeping on park benches.

“What the fuck, Hamilton,” Jefferson says, voice raised. “I’m not just– I’m not gonna let you walk out of here so you can die on the _street–”_

“And why not?” Alex is yelling, on the verge of hysterics. “Why _wouldn't_ you let me rot like a street rat? You’ve never been able to stand me before. Why do you even care?”

“I’m not _heartless,_ Alexander!” Jefferson says– the use of his first name does not escape Alex, but he makes no comment. “I know you don't like me. But believe it or not, I’m a decent human, and I'm not going to let someone _die_ because I don't like their attitude.”

Fuck this. Fuck Jefferson and his goddamn _morals_ that seem to have come up out of the blue– since when did _Jefferson_ care for his wellbeing? He isn't a charity case, doesn't need a pity party. And it's not like–

“It's not like you'll even know who I am. Not for long, anyways.”

The curse had taken away everyone. Everyone he loved.

Why would Jefferson be any different?

The silence that follows is a heavy one. Jefferson is still, until he sets his glass on the counter and walks across the kitchen, until he is face to face with Alex– only a foot or two of space between them.

“Maybe I will,” he says quietly. “But until then, I’m not letting you walk out that door.”

Ten steps. Ten steps, and Alex could be out the door, away from Jefferson and his strange, out-of-character kindness and pity, and then… what? Sleep on park benches, steal from bodegas, spend the rest of his life hunting down a witch he knew deep down he'd never find?

He'd never been one to accept handouts, but this wasn't a simple handout. Jefferson was offering food and a roof over his head, not an envelope of pity cash and a smile. Alex may be brash, but he's not stupid; his own pride be damned.

Instead of the simple ‘okay’ like he'd planned, Alexanders body betrays him. He closes the distance between them in an instance, enveloping the taller man in a suffocating hug; holding onto him like a lifeline.

“Thanks,” he manages to whisper, cringing at the sappiness of it all– really, when had he become this soft?

Jefferson gives him an awkward pat on the back, and a small part of Alex relishes in his discomfort.

“Anytime,” Jefferson mutters from above him, giving in to Alex’s hold and relaxes into the embrace– albeit with some amount of reluctance.

For a moment, Alex lets himself forget about the curse, forget about the way his life has been torn from his hands. Forgets about Jefferson, and how he's supposed to hate him, and simply lets himself be held.

May as well enjoy it while it lasts.

–––

“So, ah. Here's the guest bedroom, shower’s down the hall.” Jefferson is holding the door open with one hand, the other fidgeting at his side as he rocks back and forth on his heels. He reminds Alex of a rather awkward butler. It’s an amusing thought, really.

“Thanks,” Alex mumbles, pushing past Jefferson into the room. It's a decent room; plain, but homely. Not quite as ostentatious as Alexander was expecting. It's nice.

“I’ll just… I’ll leave you to it,” Jefferson says from behind him. Alex hears some shuffling, and then the quiet click of a door being closed– he is alone.

Alexander sinks down onto the bed, trying to process everything that had happened in the last two hours or so.

 _Eliza._ It makes his heart hurt tremendously just thinking about it, about her. Eliza, his love, his star. Who doesn’t remember who he is, abe probably never will. Who he will never know again.

It's too much. Too much pain, too much to think about, so Alexander does what he does best.

_Repress. Forget. Move on._

_I’m sorry, Eliza._

And then there's Jefferson. Jefferson who hates him but is suddenly being kind to him and for whatever reason hasn't been affected by the curse and none of it makes sense. At this point, he's sure Jefferson will forget him soon; it's only a matter of time. A few days, at the most. He doesn't have long, may as well enjoy a bed while he can.

Speaking of beds, he's positively _exhausted._ It's not incredibly late, especially since his normal bedtime dances around the 2 a.m. mark, but the weight of the day has worn on him and he doesn't think he could stay awake much longer if he tried.

Alex falls on his back into the cushions, not bothering to shower or even change into something other than his grimy day clothes. It's not important, doesn't matter much right now. All that truly matters is sleep.

His eyes flutter shut, and sleep takes hold.

–––

_Screaming. Laughing. Someone calling his name, and then not. Eliza, Eliza, Eliza… she's gone. She's a witch now, dark, curly hair and glinting eyes. The witch is pointing, cackling, muttering about curses and legacies and congratulations. His world is filled with cruel pinks and reds and oranges, and then he is alone. So, so alone. Always alone, always alone…_

“-exander!”

Alex's eyes fly open to see a figure on top of him, shaking his shoulders and yelling… something… his name? Yes, his name. Yelling his name, and isn't that the oddest thing? He knows his name, knows his name when Alex had almost forgotten it himself.

He blinks a few times in the darkness, tried to piece his scattered brains back together. His heart is racing and hands shaking like leaves in a hurricane. The confusion subsides, and all he's left with is a nauseating fear– he's alone, alone in the room, alone for the rest of his life.

Except… he's not, because there's Jefferson staring down at him, calling his name over and over with what sounds like worry– Alex stops struggling and relaxes, takes a deep breath to calm himself.

“Jefferson?” He mutters, shifting up into a sitting position.

“What the hell happened? You kept… screaming.”

 _Screaming?_ Had he been screaming?

“Just a nightmare, sorry,” Alex says, shivering slightly. “Didn't mean to wake you.”

Jefferson shakes his head a little and sits back on the edge of the bed. “It's fine,” he mutters. “You okay now?”

Aside from the lingering queasy feeling in his stomach, yes. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” He’s _fine,_ and if his hands could stop shaking right about now, that'd be great.

“Okay, I guess I’ll just…” Jefferson slides off the bed, unsure. He makes a move to turn away, to leave Alex alone in the darkness, and before Alexander has time to think he whips his arm out, pulling Jefferson back.

“Actually, could you… stay?” Alex says. His face is burning, and he's thankful for the darkness covering him. Nothing good could come out of Jefferson seeing him flustered.

Jefferson makes a little _‘oh’_ sound, and tentatively sits back down on the bed. “Uh, sure– here, I’ll, ah–” he stutters around nonsense syllables and slowly maneuvers himself in the bed until he's next to Alex. “Do you want me to… hold you?”

What he _really_ wants at this point is for the floor to open up so he can sink into the ground, but instead Alex just huffs. “Please don't make me ask it,” he mumbles, but even so he shuffles a bit closer to Jefferson. An invitation.

He hears some shuffling, and then two arms wrap around his frame and pull him close. It's wrong– at least, it _should_ be wrong, because this is Jefferson and he's not supposed to _cuddle_ with Thomas Jefferson– but he can't bring himself to care. He's held and he's safe and it's warm and comforting and he can't imagine being anywhere else.

Perhaps he can learn to like Thomas– tolerate him, at the very least. While it lasts.

–––

The days go by. Jefferson's valiant-yet-awkward attempts at kindness are equal parts amusing and heartfelt, and Alexander is almost grateful– he knows it's all a pity act, though. He's caught Thomas giving him one too many kicked-puppy looks to believe anything else.

An interesting development to their relationship has been the touching. What started as Jefferson giving the most awkward hug known to man– an act, once Alex had finished cackling loudly, he defended with ‘I thought you like touch!’ That, naturally, sparked mischief in Alex’s head, and from then on it became something of a mission to be as clingy and touchy-feely as possible, whenever possible.

To make Jefferson uncomfortable, he tells himself. To have a laugh. God knows he could use one.

“I don't _get_ it,” Alex moans one Saturday evening, and promptly drapes himself across Thomas’ lap. Jefferson doesn't tense like he used to, instead a hand goes to Alexander’s hair and begins to stroke. He’s looking at his phone, barely paying a lick of attention to Alexander, and Alex can't help but think the stroking is a subconscious reaction.

He's not quite sure what to think of that.

“What don't you get?” Thomas says after a beat of silence, once it's clear Alex is waiting for a response. The hand in his hair stills, further proving his theory that Jefferson hadn't meant to start it, but he doesn't pull away like Alex would've thought. Interesting.

“You. Why you still… you know.” They had an unspoken agreement going– don't talk about the curse. Don't talk about the reality that Thomas is almost certainly going to forget Alexander's very existence sooner or later. It’s the elephant in the room that they refuse to acknowledge, but Alex is frustrated. It just doesn't make _sense._

Jefferson definitely stiffens now, and bucks his knee up a little, signaling Alex to sit up. He does so begrudgingly, and repositions himself until he’s sitting facing Thomas, with his legs drawn up and head resting on his knees.

“It makes no sense. I mean, I've been here what? Two weeks now? And the curse _still_ hasn't gotten to you. It's driving me mad.” A small part of him wishes Jefferson would go ahead and just _forget_ already, because being held in this limbo is close to torture. It would be so much easier to rip the band-aid off once and for all, kick Alex to the curb for good like he knows will happen eventually. Instead, Jefferson's being so frustratingly _nice,_ giving him food and shelter and comfort and he doesn't even pick fights anymore. He's trying hard to show Alex kindness, to show him mercy. It's _pity._

Because he knows just as well as Alex does how the story will end.

“Did you tell anyone else? About… about the curse?” Jefferson asks. It's a question that catches Alex off guard, and he shrugs in response.

“No point. No one would believe me.” _You certainly didn't,_ he thinks, but he doesn't say it. It doesn't have to be said.

“Well, maybe that's it.” Thomas says. “They didn't know about the curse, so they couldn’t fight it. I know about it, and I’m trying so damn hard to remember you. So maybe I will.”

 _I’m trying so damn hard to remember you._ The sentiment causes something to crack in Alexander, pushing the dam ever so closer to breaking. “I wish you still acted like you hate me,” he says ruefully. “It would make it so much easier to leave.”

“Oh, trust me, you're still unbearable,” Thomas says, smirking. The jab is refreshing, especially compared to how much walking-on-eggshells he’d been doing as of late. Acting like Alex was made glass, ready to shatter at any minute. “But I figure you've had it rough enough as is.”

A stroke of impulse runs through Alexander, and he leans into Thomas’ chest, relishing in the warmth of another body. The contact is grounding, and Alex finds himself craving touch less and less to pester Thomas and more because he simply likes it– asshole or not, Jefferson is a good cuddler.

 _“Fuck_ being alone, you know?” Alex says suddenly. He pouts up at Thomas, who rolls his eyes and ruffles a hand through Alexander’s hair. That might be the thing he misses most about Thomas, at this point– touch. What started out as a joke is becoming more and more a lifeline to Alexander; he's always loved contact, but the more he thinks about a life with nobody, the more he's terrified of losing it.

So he’ll take what he can get.

“It sucks ass,” Thomas says, and Alex has to think for a minute what he was talking about– right, loneliness. Being alone. Forever.

Well, not forever, for Jefferson at least. “You've got a lifetime, though. I’m a dead man soon. My time’s running out.”

The more he talks about it, the more he thinks about it, the more reckless he becomes. He buries his face in Thomas’ neck, slowly realizing that it may be the last neck he has the pleasure of burying his face in. Take what he can get, Take what he can get.

There's a shift in the air; subtle, yet both men feel it. Desperate, yet cautious. Reckless abandon mixed with a fear of the unknown– they're in no man’s land. Only one way out; and that's to keep going forward.

“You've got time,” Jefferson says, barely audible, and Alex thinks _fuck it._ He tilts his head, lips barely brushing against the spot where neck meets shoulder, and Thomas _shivers._ Alex scoots closer, leans his head up until their faces are centimeters apart. Doesn't ask for an invitation to close the gap, just dives in headfirst and prays he doesn't drown.

Unfortunately, Thomas pulls back after a second. Not harshly, he's not wearing some look of disgust, but he is studying Alexander with an expression he can't quite name, something akin to curiosity but… sadder. Something. He's not all that focused on words right now.

“Why?” Thomas asks, which is _totally_ unfair, he was the one to get all suggestive with his ‘ _you've got time’_ crap, but Alex isn't a dick and so he sits back and fidgets with the hem of his shirt.

“Because why not, Thomas,” he says plainly. “You're here, you remember, and I don't know how long that's gonna last so might as well take a shot while I can.” He shuts his eyes, lets out a frustrated huff. “And fuck it, I’m gonna be so damn _alone_ soon and that terrifies me, fuck– I need it, Thomas, I need _you–”_

“I don't want to do anything if your motive is ‘might as well,’” Thomas cuts in, “and I’m not a one-and-done.”

It takes a minute to realize Thomas isn't posing a rejection, but an offer. A choice.

“It's not,” Alex says, and it's true. There's a lot more behind it than ‘might as well,’ things he could try and piece together if his heart and brain and body weren't already racing into this at top speed. “And it doesn't have to be.” Because, really, they live under the same roof, and everything else in Alexander’s life has been thrown on its axis up to this point, it only makes sense for them to end up here. There's no reason it has to be a ‘one-and-done,’ as Thomas called it.

(Other than the big, glaring, obvious reason, but he's not thinking about that.)

“I _want_ you,” Alex whispers, and no other words need to be said.

Thomas presses his lips against Alexander’s; tentatively at first, but then the spark grows into a steady flame and he kisses harder, hands roaming up and down Alex’s back and neck and tangling in his hair. Alexander shifts until he's straddling Thomas and slowly leans forward until they're horizontal; Thomas pressed into the pillows with Alex on top of him.

Fingers dance along the hem of his shirt, and he pulls back to tug it over his head. Thomas does the same, and pulls Alexander back down until they're pressed torso to torso, and Alex can feel every thump of Thomas’ heartbeat resonating in his head. It's deafening in a glorious way.

Alexander kisses down Thomas’ jaw, down his neck, leaves a dark, sloppy red mark just under the collarbone. He's not thinking, just letting his body take him wherever– if he starts thinking about this, then he’ll start thinking about the curse, and if that happens he might actually start crying, and wouldn't _that_ be a mood-killer?

So he doesn't think. He just _goes._

 _“Fuck,”_ Thomas hisses from above him as Alex trails further and further down his torso, sucking in the occasional bruise here and there– perhaps if he leaves a mark, Thomas won't forget. Fuck, at this point, he _can't_ forget.

His hands are moving to the rhythm in his head– the drum beat, Thomas’ heartbeat, guiding him. Alex’s fingers curl around the waistband of Thomas’ pants and he pulls it all down in one go, not bothering to push anything down past mid thigh. Thomas’ cock springs out, half hard already, and Alex bites back a smirk; how satisfying to know he’s got such an effect on Thomas. That, or he's just easily excited. Either way, it's enough to give Alex a healthy confidence boost.

“Can I?” Alexander asks, sparing a glance up at Thomas. He's got his eyes shut, but not screwed tight like Alex tends to do. Instead he's relaxed, chest rising and falling like he could sink into whatever bliss is about to settle over him. Which is funny, really. Alex hasn't even _started._

“Hell yes,” Thomas says, and Alex doesn't waste another minute. He wraps his hand around the base of Thomas’ cock, pumping up a few times to bring Thomas to full hardness before licking a long, slow line up the length. It's been awhile since he's done this, but it's kind of like riding a bike. All the late night sessions with John in their college dorm are coming back to him. _Don't think. Let your body lead._

He licks his lips before wrapping them around the tip, humming in satisfaction when he hears Thomas sigh, the sound dancing on the edge of a moan but not quite there. Not yet, anyways.

Alex sinks down on Thomas’ cock, getting a little more than halfway before the gag reflex threatens to kick in and he figures that's enough– Thomas is definitely… blessed, and a mouth is only so big. Besides, he's rusty at this. He wraps a hand around what he can't get in his mouth and begins to bob up and down, pulling out all the tricks he learned from John all those years ago. Very quickly he gets lost in the motion until only the sounds of Thomas’ groans and whines and _‘oh, fuck, Alexander,’_ remain.

The blowjob is nice, and it's fun to see Thomas come undone under his mouth, but it's not enough– Alex craves _more._ He's a little unsure; honestly, when he'd been thinking about this before, he hadn't considered it going any farther than oral and some hardcore making out. But that was then.

“Can I–” He pulls off of Thomas with a _pop_ and climbs back up the bed until they're face to face again. “Can I fuck you?”

Thomas eyebrows go up, and Alex is ready to backtrack– it's too much, too fast, he knows it. Got ahead of himself as always. But then Thomas is reaching for the nightstand, opening the drawer and pulling out a little bottle of lube and a condom and pressing them into Alexander's hands.

_Oh. Well then._

“You sure?” Alex says, and Thomas nods.

“I want you, Alex,” he says, then drops his voice and practically _growls_ in Alexander's ear. “I want you to _fuck me.”_

And that's all the invitation Alex needs. He flips the cap on the lube bottle and squirts a generous amount into his hand, coating a finger with the slick stuff before pressing it against Thomas’ entrance.

“You done this before?”

Thomas rolls his eyes. “You think I'd let you fuck me if I hadn't?”

_Well then. Just checking. No need to get prissy._

One finger, then two, then three. A few minutes of stretching before Thomas is adequately prepared, and Alex is rolling a condom on, slicking his length with more lube, and lining the tip of his cock up with Thomas’ hole.

“Ready?” He asks one more time, waiting for another nod from Thomas before pushing in. Slow, slow at first, stopping every few seconds to let Thomas get used to the breach before pushing in further.

“Move,” Thomas grunts, hands coming up to grip Alex’s hips. And move Alex does, setting a fast but gentle rhythm, leaning down to press his entire body against Thomas’ own. Closer, closer, closer. He's holding onto Thomas like a lifeline– which, in a way, he is. Every thrust further cements the bitter truth that this is finite, an end will come soon. He's running out of time and maybe it was a mistake to give his body and heart away like this, because it's going to be that much harder to walk away once the inevitable happens.

But then he looks down at Thomas, panting and desperate, and he can't bring himself to stop.

“Alexander, yes, _yes,_ oh fuck–” Thomas is babbling, mouthing praise in between kisses and hot, needy touches. His hips snap upward in perfect time with Alex’s thrusts, and together they create a symphony. A sounding beat and melody as one.

Sex with Thomas Jefferson is not at all like Alex had imagined at one point. There’s no power struggle, no attempts at degradation. It isn't rough or hard or angry or any other words Alex used to be able to describe his relationship with Thomas– instead, it's all passion; gentle yet desperate, exciting yet terrifying. But of course, it couldn't be any other way– Alexander's fucking a man who he once despised but is now the sole reason he's kept his sanity, the sole knot tethering him to reality. To whatever peace of mind he has left.

They're not fucking, not really. They're making _love._

It is with this thought in his head that Alexander comes with a gasp and collapses fully against Thomas, who finishes not long after. All energy is drained from his body and Thomas is the one to roll off the bed and fetch a towel, clean the two of them off before crawling back into bed beside Alex.

“That was nice,” Thomas says, and Alex laughs. Or at least, he thinks he does, until one of Thomas’ hands comes up to swipe across his cheek– “Are you crying?”

Alex blinks, and feels a few more tears roll down his face. Huh. Definitely crying, then.

At this point, he really can't bring himself to care.

“Why are you crying, Alex? Fuck, was that too much, _shit,_ I’m sorry–”

Thomas is cut short by Alexander enveloping him in a crushing embrace, face pressed into Thomas’ neck. The tears start falling faster now, every emotion Alex had worked so, so carefully to lock away spilling over all at once. Silent tears turn to heavy, ugly sobs, and Thomas doesn't ask question; just holds him tight. Waits for the storm to pass.

“I– I can't _lose_ _you,”_ he chokes out, once the sons subside into something manageable. He can't lose him now, _not now._ Not after what they did, yet he knows it has to be that way.

Although, a stubborn glimmer of hope deep in his bones keeps whispering _but maybe it doesn't._

Thomas is quiet for a minute, then presses his lips to the top of Alexander's head. “I’m not gonna forget you, Alex,” he murmurs. “I don't care if I have to repeat your name every damn _minute._ I’m not going to forget you, I swear.”

Alex swallows. “Promise me, Thomas. Please.”

“I promise. I’ll never forget you. Witches be _damned.”_

There is a finality in his words, and somehow, Alex believes it.

“Witches be damned,” Alex agrees.

For a while, they just lay there. Not talking, not moving, just bathing in afterglow and at peace with each other's company. There's the distinct feeling that something monumental has just occurred, but neither of them mention it. They both know what it is, anyways.

“I can't believe I used to hate you,” Alexander says eventually.

Thomas chuckles. “Glad you threw a _used_ in there.”

Alexander meets Thomas’ gaze, and it suddenly occurs to him that maybe this didn't start out as pity. Maybe none of it had been pity at all.

Maybe, just maybe, Thomas needs this just as much as he does.

–––

It is June the first– their fifth anniversary.

Of course, it's not the _actual_ anniversary. There had never been a clear, definite start to their relationship, and by the second year Alex had just picked a date at random and it stuck. It must've been close to June the first time they gave themselves to each other, so it works.

The years had gone by, and Alexander settled.

And never once has Thomas’ memory faltered.

They’ve been doing alright so far. The days are still lonely; Thomas works most of the day, leaving Alex to fend for himself alone in an empty house. But he's got a job, sort of, writing articles for different news websites under a variety of pseudonyms. It's not much, but it pays alright and keeps him occupied until Thomas gets home.

He's been introduced and reintroduced to Madison a hundred times, each exchange beginning with ‘Who is this?’ and ending with ‘Thomas, you never told me you were dating anyone!’ It was funny at first, and then tiring, and eventually became the new normal, just another part in their routine. Life goes on.

All in all, he's happy. The curse is a dormant memory, coming out only in his lowest times and the occasional nightmare, but Thomas is there. Every time. He's there to hold Alexander, say his name over and over again like a mantra, _prove_ that he's not going anywhere. That he's never going anywhere.

Five years. It's been an eternity, yet no time at all.

What _has_ been an eternity, though, is Thomas himself. He should've been home fifteen minutes ago, and Alex is getting damn impatient– at this rate, dinner will be cold by the time Thomas comes home. And that’ll really blow; Alex put a lot of work into making everything look nice. He even bought flowers.

Finally, _finally_ , the front door opens and Thomas comes in, shedding his shoes and jacket before greeting Alex with a kiss.

“What's this?” Thomas says, eyes flickering to Alexander's setup at the table. It's an impressive layout, honestly– there's a tablecloth, there's candles, there's flowers. Alex even looked up proper plating etiquette, to make sure all the utensils were in the right places. And it looks _good,_ damn it.

“Happy anniversary, Thomas,” he says, arms sliding to wrap around Thomas’ waist. “Thought we could celebrate, so I made dinner. Then afterwards, we can really…” Alex drops his voice. “... _celebrate._ If you know what I mean.”

“I do know what you mean. You make that joke all the time.” Thomas pulls away from Alex to sit at the table, and Alexander follows suit.

“Sex. I mean sex. We’re gonna have sex after dinner.”

Thomas just rolls his eyes. “You're ridiculous.” He reaches for the flower vase in the center of the table, inspecting the soft blue petals. “These are beautiful. Forget-me-nots, right?”

Alexander nods. “Saw them when I was or today. Really caught my eye. Thought you'd like them.”

“I love them,” Thomas says. “Really, all of this. It's wonderful. You really outdid yourself, Alexander.”

 _Anything for you._ “I tried. Gotta be memorable, you know?”

Thomas smiles. “I won't forget it.”

 _Never forget._ “You better not.” A pause, and then, “I love you, Thomas.”

Dinner begins and ends in bliss; a bliss that only intensifies as Alexander takes Thomas by the hand to lead him to the bedroom. A bliss that doesn't subside even after they've both reached their finish and lay panting beside each other, a bliss that carries on even in dreams.

A bliss that is unshaken still, even as morning comes and Alex wakes to the morning sun streaming in through the window.

He stretches his back before curling into Thomas once more; hoping to catch a few more blissful minutes of sleep. At one point, years ago, he would've been up and about the minute his eyes opened; now he tends to sleep in, to cherish every moment of stillness while it lasts. It's funny how that works.

Unfortunately, his movement rouses Thomas, who twists under the covers before prying his eyes open and peering at Alexander.

“Morning, sunshine,” Alex murmurs. He leans in to press a kiss to Thomas’ lips– something he learned very quickly was the best way to wake him up, without a doubt.

Thomas’ lips are cold.

Something is wrong.

Alexander pulls back, and only then does he register the air of _not right_ in the room. Something is wrong, something is definitely amiss.

Thomas is staring at him, brow slightly furrowed. He sits up in the bed and scrubs a hand over his face, and the expression that follows is not one Alexander's used to seeing.

“Shit, I’m sorry, man,” he says, “ I don't usually go for one night stands, I don't know what happened–”

What? One night stands? “Thomas, what–”

And then.

And then it hits him.

He searches Thomas’ face, looking for anything but the truth. Some sign of recognition, of realization, of _something–_

There is nothing but confusion.

His time is up.

“It's okay,” Alex hears himself say. “I’ll get out of your hair.” He's off the bed in the next moment, pulling on clothes that had been tossed aside, forgotten on the floor. Everything he feels, every word and every thought and every sensation, seem to be muffled by some sort of bubble; or maybe he's not occupying his body anymore. Certainly doesn't feel like it. He's got no control of where his feet go, and he leaves the bedroom without looking back. He's got no control of what his mouth says, and he shuts the door without saying goodbye.

His legs carry him across the room, past the table with the vase of forget-me-nots still right in the middle.

The flowers have wilted. How strange.

It's all a blur from there. He makes it out of Thomas’ apartment– of _his_ apartment, that much is certain. There's no space in his brain for grieving, or even thinking too hard. He's got no fight left in him. He's forgotten _how_ to fight.

Somehow, the sun sets and he finds himself in the back of a bar, tucked away in a quiet corner, safe from the buzz and commotion of the outside world. Only then does he allow himself to reflect on what has happened, on who he has become.

There is no one left. For real, this time.

The only sound to be pulled out of him is a dry laugh, devoid of all emotion. There is nothing else to be done– he's drained of tears and drained of grief and the only thing he hasn't been drained of seems to be exhaustion. When all's said and done, he's just _tired._

Alexander stares into his drink, downs it in one go. Sets the empty glass on the table with all the other glasses he's drained. At one point, he would've had more control. But self-restraint is a fickle thing to keep, and it's all but nonexistent in a man who’s lost the desire to care.

So he orders another, and another. It's the natural order of things, really. Every single person he has loved has forgotten his very existence. His name, his legacy, everything he’d ever built himself to be has been ripped away from him, and he's stood by and watched the whole thing as it all slips away.

He takes a sip, relaxes into the burn.

All that's left to do is forget himself.

 

**Author's Note:**

> ...whoops.
> 
> so feel free to come yell at me on tumblr, @roseclipping!! nothing makes my day like hearing from you guys, seriously.
> 
> as always, please leave a comment/kudos if you enjoyed this fic xx
> 
> thank you so much for reading!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Where To Go From Here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11386191) by [spaceyheir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceyheir/pseuds/spaceyheir)




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